


Approval Seeker

by NorroenDyrd



Series: My Precious Heathen [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action, Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Anxiety Attacks, Battlefield, Complicated Relationships, Denial of Feelings, Drama & Romance, Exploration, F/M, Fear, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Hate to Love, Hurt/Comfort, Magic, Metaphors, Romance, Romantic Friendship, Unfinished Business Quest, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 11:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6049525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For some inexplicable reason, Inquisitor Lavellan goes out of his way to personally take down every single rogue Templar he is hunting for Cassandra, even though he is greatly outmatched.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by how I rushed through the Unfinished Business quest, eager to get Cassandra's high approval/romance cutscene, despite my Lavellan being way too low-level for some of his targets.

The first 'item' on Cassandra's list of potential threats is a renegade Templar, Ser Something-or-Other (after all this time he has spent among humans, Lavellan still cannot be bothered with all those fancy titles and triple-deckered names... Here's at least one thing he and Sera can agree on).   
  
According to Scout Harding's reports, the man, accompanied by a throng of not too friendly-looking minions, is often seen popping up left and right somewhere in the Hinterlands. But this 'somewhere', which Harding outlined in a wavy squiggle, while still suppressing a snicker over Varric's famous story about copper marigolds - well, this 'somewhere' is a pretty big blob on the map... vague, too. They will have to comb a pretty big chunk of hills and forests to find the Templar, who is roaming somewhere out there like a wild, deranged, sword-wielding needle-in-a-haystack.   
  
Even Cassandra herself was rather doubtful at first. She kept frowning (more than usual, that is) while Harding was relaying her findings - which she had brought to Solas' quarters, where the Inquisitor and the older elf were tinkering about with those odd, pulsing, whispering blue shards that the party still keeps bringing back from its expeditions. And when the scout finished reporting and skipped off on some other mission, Cassandra coughed several times into her fist and said, her voice slow with an intonation of uncertainty,  
  
'Inquisitor... I do not think we should pursue this lead just yet. We need our agents to pinpoint a more precise location. And maybe give us more information about just how well-equipped this Templar and his men are. We can't just rush into the Hinterlands blindly, waving our banners and waiting for the enemy to spring out and overpower us'.  
  
The only reply she received was a scoffing scowl, which Lavellan flashed at her like a dagger, as he looked up from the shard he was measuring,  
  
'What, do you want me to suffer through another one of those irksome war table sessions? No, thank you very much! We head out right now, today. I give you half an hour to stock up and check your gear...'  
  
Then, he paused - suddenly, abruptly, almost literally in the middle of pronouncing the last word - and looked away from Cassandra. After a few moments of awkward silence, he spoke again, but this time in a completely different voice, sounding as if he felt guilty about his commanding tone and snarling expression,  
  
'Err... That is, if that's enough time for you. And grab Varric and Bianca, too - I heard him complaining that his crossbow needs some action... And I think the crossbow was complaining too, all those creaks she made when he polished her. Hahren - '   
  
Lavellan turned towards Solas, inclining his head as a sign of respect.  
  
'Would you mind staying here? I think the Inquisition needs all the help it can get to figure out the purpose of this odd magic'.  
  
With that, he gave the shard a small tap with his forefinger; it responded with a sudden surge of much louder, faster whispering, as though offended.  
  
Solas nodded - but before he could articulate a reply, another voice intervened, soft and a little child-like, coming seemingly out of nowhere,  
  
'Can I come? I want to see the Hinterlands again. That place is so big, so open... So many different whispers... So many people that need help'.  
  
Cassandra started, and then stiffened, her hand instinctively travelling towards the hilt of her blade - even though by now, she knew that the voice meant to bring no harm. Lavellan grew tense as well, for the voice had an infuriating habit of travelling through the darkest, most winding paths deep inside his mind, and unveiling things that he himself did not know were there.   
  
But this time, the voice seemed only interested in what awaited them in the Hinterlands - growing ever faster, ever more urgent, it chanted in a sweeping, monotonous tune,  
  
'Thick, sticky cobwebs, clogging up her chest; tiny spiders, crawling and biting, till her flesh begins to bleed on the inside... She opens her mouth, gasping for more air, but it's no use; she is like a fish tossed out of the cool safety of the water onto a dry, parched bank. The air turns to baked clay, cracked, brittle - and yet so hard, so heavy, pressing down on her, crushing her ribs... Where is he? Where is the boy? He was always there - always there to help... Soft, kind hands, with cold fingers, dancing lightly, mixing herbs, making a draught that will wash away the cobwebs, and turn the clay to air again. Where is he?'  
  
'Erm, yes, that is quite enough, Cole,' Lavellan said, raising his voice. 'You can come. That's settled then. Me, Cole, Varric, and you, Cassandra. We meet at the stables when everyone's ready, and go Templar-hunting. Now excuse me, hahren, I have to fetch some things in my quarters'.  
  
Exchanging another polite nod with Solas, he walked out through the arched doorway that led to the main hall; as he brushed past her, Cassandra, once again, attempted to reason with him,  
  
'Inquisitor, as one of your advisors, I still think - '  
  
He snapped back at her over his shoulder, hovering on the threshold,   
  
'This mission was your idea. So stop with this strategic beating about the bush. We find the Templar now. Today. End of discussion'.  
  
'Maker!' Cassandra exclaimed in exasperation when Lavellan vanished around the corner. 'Sometimes I think this new title went to his head'.  
  
'No, his head is filled with something else...' Cole mused slowly, materializing in a crouching pose on top of Solas' scroll-strewn desk. 'Can't wait for more reports; too long, too boring; must head out as soon as possible... Rushing, always rushing, thoughts jumbled, heart in a frenzy... I have to complete the mission the Seeker gave me. I have to impress her'.  
  
'Stop talking nonsense!' Cassandra cut him short. 'This can't be what he is thinking - you are making things up!'  
  
Cole glanced up at her, with his pale-blue eyes rounded in sincere bewilderment.   
  
'I never make things up. Why should I? I hear the lost songs - I don't have to make up for the silence like Varric. You are the one that makes things up: you look cross and say it's all nonsense, but inside your head, you smile, happy and pleased. You like it when he wants to impress you. You - '  
  
'That is quite enough, Cole,' Cassandra said, glaring at Solas as he hurried to duck behind a stack of ancient arcane tomes in order to conceal a meaningful smirk. 'You heard the Inquisitor. We head out in half an hour. If he insists on going on a wild goose chase, someone has to be there to keep him from doing something stupid'.  
  
  
... And so, here they are. Combing through the wilds on a quest for a needle in a haystack. Cassandra is marching ahead, grim and determined and looking a little like a statue from a ceremonial bas relief commemorating some great battle, and Varric is trotting at her side, firing an occasional joke at her and shaking his head when it sinks into nothingness, like a crossbow bolt that has hit impenetrable armour. Lavellan, in turn, is striding a good few paces ahead, ignoring the branches of the undergrowth that keep slashing at his knees; his face looks as if he will not hesitate to make an obscene gesture the moment someone reminds him that in every sound battle plan, the mage is supposed to cover the party's backs, not saunter in the frontline, where the enemy will easily cut him down.  
  
Cole, however, is nowhere to be seen: he was with them when they left the nearest settlement, but then got distracted by chasing nugs across a flowery meadow. All three of the remaining companions have travelled with the spirit boy long enough to know that he will show up sooner or later, just at the moment when they need him - and frankly, both the Inquisitor and the Seeker looked greatly relieved when he fell back; the latter, especially, for the boy's ramblings in Solas' quarters still ring loud and clear within her mind.  
  
Just as it could have been expected with so little information to go on, they have been wandering about in a circle, and time and again, Varric can be heard calling out,   
  
'Hey Seeker! I think this is the rock you wanted to smash my head against some minutes ago! You know, the one that looks like a giant arse perched on an anvil? Reminds me of this guy I know, what's-his-name...'   
  
And time and again, Cassandra attempts to approach the Inquisitor and try to talk him into returning to camp and putting off this search till later - but he only shakes her off with a curt response,  
  
'I never return to camp without a completed objective marked in my task list! If you have a problem with that, you can all crawl in your tents, and I will take that rogue Templar down all on my own!'  
  
With that, he usually speeds up, increasing the gap between himself and the rest of the party by a few more steps - and leaving Cassandra wondering...  
  
Once, she chanced to be passing by when the Inquisitor got into an argument with Dorian - which, following some inexplicable mage logic, ended with the two of them sitting on the railing of the library tower's top floor, sharing drinks and elaborately sarcastic quips that it took her a few seconds to understand... and when they parted, the Tevinter gave the elf a wink that made Cassandra's heart jolt, rather painfully, for a reason that she could not understand - like she could not understand the hot, clenching feeling somewhere underneath her armour's neckline, when Dorian caught sight of her and called out, his tone more good-natured than usual (perhaps due to the mellowing influence of the wine),  
  
'Not to worry, Seeker! I was just being playful! Your prize is safe any mischief on my part!.. Mostly'.  
  
But this is all utter nonsense, of course. Quite beside the point. The point is that, before the wine - while the two mages were still at each other's throats - she heard Dorian compare Lavellan to a dragon in a cave, thrashing about and snapping its jaws at anyone who gets close. And now, it strikes her just how accurate that parallel was. As the elf walks in front of her, his shoulders spread out and his head raised up high, with crackling flame tongues twisting round the tip of the dormant magic staff behind his back, ready to swell into a menacing fireball - she finds herself thinking back to the image of a dragon, swooping over the wilds un search of his prey. Never resting. Never backing down. Channeling all his will into fulfilling one single goal... In this case, the goal is to track down a rogue Templar and to slay him - and... and to impress her? No, that would be impossible. Cole has to be mistaken. There is no reason why the Inquisitor would try to impress her.  
  
Back in Haven, he - he started out distrusting her, if not outright hating her, like his kind hate all 'shemlen'; and she had no reason not to return the feelings in kind, especially given the blind fervour with which he supported the rebel mages, and his persistent, aggressive refusal to acknowledge the Maker. As time went by, each of them came to respect the other's decisiveness and strength of character; they learned to work side by side, to aid one another in battle, and according to Dorian, in that dark, terrible year-that-never-was, Cassandra even laid down her life so that Lavellan and his new Tevinter friend could escape to the past and overwrite the future - and Lavellan wept when he witnessed her sacrifice. Still, that does not mean he would suddenly decide to put on a show in front of her, like some sort of village boy trying to get the girl next door to notice him!  
  
But - but why would that omnipresent, unnervingly all-knowing spirit child even suggest such a thing? Why would anyone..? Why did Solas smirk when the boy spoke about the Inquisitor's thoughts? Why did Dorian call him 'her prize'? And why is Varric staring at her like that?!  
  
'What?' Cassandra barks, slowing down and looming over the dwarf. 'What?!'  
  
'You have been muttering things to yourself, Seeker,' Varric replies slyly, readjusting his crossbow's straps. 'And it has suddenly occurred to me that I never told you the story about copper marigolds. Kind of slipped my mind during the Find Hawke game we were playing. If you recall, there was this guard captain in Kirkwall. One of my best friends, actually - after you, of course. A bleedin' wyvern of a woman, went about and hit criminals on the head with a big sign that said "DON'T"... Well, not literally, but she had it in her. And one fine day, it dawned on her that she fancied this guy with ridiculous sideburns...'  
  
'The Inquisitor does not have ridiculous sideburns!' Cassandra blurts out before she can stop herself. 'I mean... Arrgh, will you stop being so smug, dwarf?! You are even worse than Dorian!'  
  
'What, really?' Varric teases. 'I thought his plan to make you jealous worked out pretty well'.  
  
Cassandra nearly chokes, gaping at her grinning companion in utter shock. Sweet Andraste - what has gotten into the lot of them?! What is their game?!  
  
She is just about to make good on her promise smash Varric's head against that arse-anvil rock, when both she and the dwarf suddenly hear a faint noise, coming from the thicket somewhere not too far ahead. A slash, a rattle - and then, a faint cry. The sounds of a struggle.  
  
While Cassandra was busy having debates with herself, Inquisitor Lavellan was just as busy doing his dragon-on-the-prowl routine, with his angular, tattooed face frozen in an intense frown of determination. And some time in the middle of his relentless march, he was joined by Cole - just as he had been when the Inquisition was stranded among snowy mountain peaks, and the fiendish child sifted through his thoughts about Cassandra.  
  
'About time you showed up,' he muttered, squinting suspiciously at the lanky lad, who had woven himself out of thin air by his side, with his hands thrust behind his back and his head cocked slightly in silent wonderment. 'And don't you dare start that lecture about the Seeker's cheekbones again!'  
  
'You are not thinking about her cheekbones now', the boy replied absently, 'Not so loudly, anyway... They are louder'.  
  
'Who's they?' Lavellan demanded.  
  
'The men you are hunting,' Cole explained breathlessly, staring ahead with eyes that went more and more large and round and glassy by the second. 'Roaming, wandering - wondering. There were orders once, orders that made sense, orders that made life so easy. Now they are gone; the arm with the sword is losing its purpose, its meaning, going rusty, limp like a ragdoll's - but ragdolls can't feel pain... And they do. Oh, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts so much - it hurts to have no purpose. Must. Make. It. Stop. Must lift the arm with the sword, must make it move again. Maybe if the sword hurts others, this hurt, the hurt of pointlessness, will go away?..'  
  
'Where?' the elf asked impatiently, grabbing the spirit boy by the shoulder, his fingers sinking into the thick patchwork padding on his jacket. 'If you can sense their thoughts, can you tell where they are?'  
  
'Over there,' Cole responded readily, pointing ahead of him, towards a little clearing where the green fingers of the forest could be seen caressing the smooth, cold stone of a half-ruined archway.  
  
And this is what has lead to the point shortly before Cassandra and Varric very alerted by the noises of a fight. The hunting dragon has found his quarry; time has come to wash the skin off the prey's bones with a blazing, hissing stream of magic.  
  
Of course, the voice of reason would have whispered that it might be wiser to wait for the rest of the party to catch up... But who wants to listen to the voice of reason? The Dread Wolf may take the voice of reason and use it as a chew toy! He, Inquisitor Lavellan, will be the one fighting this fight! He and he alone! Right here, right now, without waiting, without mulling over stupid stratagems! The others may catch up and cover his back - but he will throw himself into the fray, for them to watch in awe! For... For her to watch in awe.  
  
Chewing at his lips in concentration, Lavellan whips the staff from behind his back and spreads out his arms like a bird taking wing - and then, dashes forward, like a stone thrown out of a sling, the outlines of his figure turning into a bluish blur, as the power of magic increases the speed of his movements for a short while. It's a tricky spell, this Fade Step, and he still remembers being very pleased with himself when he finally mastered it. Other mages commonly use this little shortcut to retreat, to increase the distance between themselves and a dangerous enemy. But not him. He uses it to get closer to his foes, so he can see their faces as they cower before him, lashed at by the wrath of the elements he wields. Oh, this is going to be glorious!


	2. Chapter 2

The Fade Step spell places Lavellan right into the middle of a slightly elevated stone platform, framed by the crumbling arches that the spirit boy was pointing at. Most of these arches are beginning to sink into the springy, thick carpet of vegetation, with only some parts of their boldly chiselled structure peeking out from beneath a tangled net of twisting tendrils - this makes the arches resemble bare white carcasses of some bizarre, green-wooled animals, with white bones completely stripped of flesh in certain places.  
  
But now is really not the best time to contemplate the scenery - for the battle-hungry elf soon finds himself facing a tall, burly human in a full-face Templar helmet and a battered cuirass, with the tell-tale flaming sword symbol barely visible through a layer of rust and grime, perfectly in tune with Cole's jumbled description. The rest of the man's armour consists of mismatched tidbits, some metal, some leather, and some stitched from fraying, checkered cloth, Sera-style. The runaway Templar must have scavenged all these straps and pauldrons and whatnots somewhere in the wilds; or maybe he pried them off the hapless souls that happened to cross his path. All the same, the fact remains that he still has every inch of his massive body shielded from harm; and ragged and wild though he is, he will definitely put up quite a fight - especially against one puny little elven mage in a long jacket, which, though undeniably fetching, does not provide nearly as much protection from incoming blows.  
  
This makes Lavellan's mind momentarily return to that moment in Solas' quarters, when Cassandra urged him to wait till they had more information and resources to take the rogue Templar down - but he dismisses the flashback, scowling derisively, just as the human before him lifts his sword for the first strike. He is Arryn-bloody-Lavellan, the Inquisitor, the savior of Thedas - he does not need information and resources to beat one sorry lyrium-sucker into a pulp! Gods, even if this blighter were Corypheus himself, he would not have backed away! All he needs is for the Seeker to arrive before he turns this shem into a puddle of squishy guts!.. Else, she would miss him being an unstoppable (and very handsome) war machine.  
  
With a loud, grunt-like noise, the Templar dashes forward, his sword cleaving through the air in a tremendous sweep, the metal flashing hungrily in the sunlight. But before this blinding steel lightning can bite into his flesh, the elf clicks his heels together, as though he is about to perform some complex Orlesian dance routine - and, tapping the ground at his feet lightly with his staff, glides gracefully sideways, so that the human's blade hits nothing but thin air.  
  
As the build-up of his blow goes to waste, the Templar loses balance momentarily, and staggers forward, his feet scraping awkwardly against the stone, as if he were drunk. Struggling to straighten himself up, he puts down his heavy, mud-splattered boot on the very spot that the elf touched with his staff. Seeing that, Lavellan clenches his fists and cranes his neck, his eyes lighting up in boyish glee and the tip of his tongue darting over his lips like a waiting predator's, as he fixes the gaze of his narrowed, burning eyes on the hulking figure before him.  
  
The moment the Templar's sole presses into the ground, a small crack, hair-thin and glowing with magic, runs across the surface of the stone. In less than half a heartbeat, another crack branches out from it, and then another, and then another still; twisting, curving, interlacing, all of these cracks course through the hard, thick layer of stone like tiny rivers of molten gold - and before the realization what is going on can penetrate his bucket-like helmet and the skull it protects, the Templar is already standing in the middle of an intricately traced circle, which sizzles and crackles like a frying pan with a generous helping of grease splashed over it. Which would make the Templar...  
  
'Mmm, shemlen roast, don't I love the smell of that!' Lavellan murmurs to himself, his eyes narrowing even more - while the human jerks his head, glancing down at his feet, apparently struck down by dumb terror.   
  
Hahren was right: it must have been quite some time since these renegade Templars faced a mage of any talent. Especially a mage of his talent.  
  
When his disused apostate-hunter brain finally deduces the nature of the twisting fiery lines on the ground, the shem makes an awkward, unsteady step away from the centre of the circle - but it is too late. Suddenly, the woodland stillness erupts into a loud 'wroosh', like fireworks going off...  
  
Ah, one of Bull's Chargers, Rocky the Dwarf, made a whole blazing display in the night-time sky to celebrate the Inquisition moving into a new home and Lavellan being appointed its leader... Of course, Cassandra protested, harping on and on about how they might have as well made the fireworks spell out 'Corypheus, we are here!'... But her face was touched with a gentle pink tint of an excited flush, and her eyes rounded up like a giddy, giggling girl's; she was so mesmerized by the cascade of fiery blossoms among the stars that she did not even seem to notice Lavellan touch her hand... Wait; now is no time for sappy flashbacks! Now is the time to watch that wretch burn!  
  
The firework-like sound is accompanied by a more than matching explosion of dazzling red and golden light. The fiery magic bursts free from the throbbing, glowing heart of the rune, and hurls the Templar up into the air, with his limbs flailing about in a comically helpless way, which makes the watchful elf grin (or rather, leer) from one pointy ear to another, dancing on the spot on the tips of his toes, as he feels his whole body tingle with an exhilarating sense of his own power, of his unmatched superiority over the enemy. Mythal's frilly underclothes, what is taking the Seeker so long? She is missing the marvelous show he has been putting on, just for her!..  
  
By the time the human lands on the ground, smashing his back against the stone with a deafening rattle, like a cupboard full of frying pans and kitchen pots collapsing on the floor - the rune is already gone. The cracks underneath his body have faded away, leaving the ancient platform smooth and blank, save for a few silvery-green splashes of lichen and some wiry bush roots crawling across the stone. But the magical markings have not vanished completely - far from it. Instead of the stone slab, the flaring golden streams are now racing along the Templar's chest plate, spitting out tiny sparks and jets of flame the size of a human finger, eating through the metal, searching for the flesh that they can roast.  
  
The hapless shem thrashes on the ground, panting loudly in mounting panic, with each gasp of air turning into a muffled cry of pain. He claws at the cracks, trying frantically to put out the tongues of mage fire - but they just keep springing up from beneath his trembling fingers, just as the cracks keep cutting deeper and deeper, burning, stinging, hissing...  
  
Lavellan draws closer, and looks over the fruit of his labours while bobbing up and down on his heels and twirling his staff - carelessly, playfully even. When the Templar lets out a particularly loud, choking wheeze, the elf bends over and says in a slow half-whisper,  
  
'Seeker Cassandra told me you are wanted for quite a crime spree, Ser I-Found-My-Armour-In-The-Gutter. For the most part it amounts to cutting down villager after villager because the way they looked at you seemed sort of blood-mage-ey. Quite a usual story with you lot these days; you would have certainly liked to share a few drinks with that huge brute that carved apart a poor unsuspecting farmer, because he mistook his shovel for an apostate's staff - am I right?'  
  
The Templar arches his back slightly, attempting to get up - but instantly slumps back, his armour clanging faintly, while the magical fire continues to trace bizarre patterns within the heart of the rusty metal. In the meanwhile, Lavellan continues,  
  
'There is this lad that I know; goes by the name Cole - he seems to believe that you and your fellow ruffians are doing this because you have lost your purpose...'  
  
He leers once more, tossing his staff half an inch into the air and then catching hold of it again and pointing its sharpened tip down at the Templar's chest.  
  
'Well then, my dear round-eared friend, you are in luck - I have just given you a new purpose. To serve as a source of my amusement... And hopefully, the amusement of a certain someone I am waiting for'.  
  
The human shudders from head to toe, and responds to the elf's little speech with a prolonged, throaty gurgle. The elf, in turn, shakes his head and clicks his tongue in exaggerated, mocking disapproval.  
  
'Tut-tut, my good Ser - can't handle a simple fire rune spell! Forgetting our anti-mage training, are we? Let me do something to help you... cool off while the rest of my travelling party catches up'.  
  
The Templar's fingers jerk convulsively, as though he is trying and failing to clutch them together into a fist - while Lavellan makes another tap with his staff, this time against the long-suffering cuirass, and draws back, looking more smug than ever before. As he does so, a wave of rippling blue light washes over the human's entire body, starting in the place that the elf touched. It creaks faintly as it spreads from the Templar's chest in all directions, like a blanket of freshly fallen snow creaks under a woodsman's clumsy, fur-adorned boots - and it seems to grow thicker, too, condensing from light to liquid to a hard, glistening ice crust in a matter of seconds.  
  
Before long, Lavellan finds himself standing next to what appears to be a life-sized ice sculpture cast in the likeness of the unfortunate Templar and true to the model in every tiniest detail, with all the leather straps, metal plates and ragged snatches of cloth that make his armour - all carved out of smooth, bluish ice. But, of course, this sculpture has been toppled over, and is lying on its back, with limbs twisted unnaturally - probably due to a sensation of bitter cold that must have pierced the ice carving when it was still a groaning, snivelling human.  
  
The elf leans down once again, aiming a kick at the frozen Templar's side - but then stops halfway, balancing awkwardly with one foot in the air, startled by a gruff, hoarse voice that calls out from a short distance somewhere behind his back,  
  
'Hey boss! We're back from the raid! Wiped the whole place out, just like you ordered! These stupid dung-heads didn't even put up a fight! Oh, you shoulda heard 'em shriek - toasting in their barns like little piglets!'  
  
Ah yes. Of course. The throng of minions. How could he forget.  
  
Snarling like a wild beast (a dragon, perhaps?) that has been caught into a trap, Lavellan tightens the grasp round his staff and whirls around, just in time to see about a dozen more rogue Templars emerge from the forest thicket in a menacing line, swords and bows on the ready. Their garb is just as tattered and mismatched as their leader's, if not more so; some are not even wearing any sort of Templar signage - maybe because they are mere bandits that joined the ranks of the former Order members in hopes of getting some loot for themselves... Or maybe because they swapped their Chantry-issued shields and cuirasses for something cheaper, and then gave away their former uniforms - their last shreds of honour and discipline - in exchange for booze and shots of lyrium. Ooh, the Seeker will so approve of him thinning the ranks of these vagrants... Like this, for instance!  
  
Lavellan shifts the grip on his staff, catching it with his Marked hand (and wincing slightly as the polished wood touches his long-suffering palm) - and then thrusts his free hand forward. Just as he does so, the tiny, dark-purple veins that run through his fingers suddenly begin to glow, appearing to turn into tiny lightning bolts, which flow and merge together into a single coiling orb, bristling with miniature blasts of shock that course through its humming core (this makes Lavellan look as if he has caught hold of a miniature copy of a tropical storm, of the kind that Bull sometimes talks about).  
  
Oh, this brings back memories.. Lavellan smirks to himself when, for a fraction of a second, he is transported back into that day, what seems like a millenium ago, when he was still a ragged knife-ear prisoner and Cassandra was in charge of him,  shepherding him towards the demon-spewing hole in the sky to see if he could close it. He can still recollect it - he can still retrace the vivid, life-like mental image of how they were walking across a slippery, rime-crusted stone bridge in the mountains, bickering with one another every step of the way... And how, without any warning, the giant, bleeding gash in the heaven's fabric spat out a jet of hissing, venom-green light, which struck at the ground right in front of them, making the centuries-old stonework collapse, and sending them hurtling, head over heels, into the icy gorge below.  
  
And when they found themselves at the bottom and, slowly making sense of what was down and what was up, got to their feet (Cassandra was making unsure attempts to support him... Pah! As though he needed her support) - the ice crust that they had landed on shattered into tiny, glittering shards, and a spirit of the Beyond burst through, like a hatchling coming out of an egg.  
  
Of course, just as it might have been expected, the journey through the Veil had proved too much for the hapless being - and whatever its true form had been in the realm of dreams, it was now a horrible, disfigured shade, barely clinging on to the last shreds of sanity and driven to attack anything that moved... Much like these Templar deserters do now, lost and angry and completely out of their element.  
  
Lavellan more than vividly remembers the wild, tortured creature lunging desperately at Cassandra, while he himself took cover behind an overturned supply cart, which must have fallen off the bridge in their wake. He has often wondered about that - after all, this was his chance to bolt for freedom and leave behind the shem who had shackled him, to be torn apart by the spawn of the Breach. And yet, he stayed; he dove into the heap of knick-knacks the were strewn across the ice all around the cart - and by sheer luck, managed to fish out some sort of primitive mage staff, probably property of one of those poor sods who had gathered at the Conclave. He used the staff to repel the shade, to protect Cassandra - and instead of 'thank you', all he got was a curt command to drop his weapon. It was then that he cast a lightning orb, just like the one he is charging up now, and said teasingly,  
  
'You know I don't even need a staff, right?'  
  
He played around with that orb for a little longer, juggling it like a ball and then tossing it upwards, where it exploded into a shower of purple sparks... which, for some odd reason, turned into tiny glowing flowers as they sailed down to the ground.  
  
And even though Cassandra's glare was burning with disapproval during a large part of his little display - at the very last moment, when she finally gave in and allowed him to follow her around while armed, something softened within her eyes. Just for a moment - one short, fleeting moment, which he has been trying to bring back ever since.  
  
But now he must return to the present, for the rogue Templars keep advancing. He must repeat his little show before they close in on him. Only this time, of course, there is going to be no flowery cascade.  
  
The ball of lightning in Lavellan's grasp shatters, shooting forward a long, jagged white bolt, which pierces the chest of the Templar nearest to him, and then dashes through the entire living chain, making each of the shems drop his weapon and freeze on the spot, throwing back his head in a convulsive fit. Ah, what a perfect job he has made of them... What a -   
  
Before the lightning blast can reach the very last Templar, a skinny, rat-like man armed with a bow, the spell loses most of its potency, and the piercing bolt fades away into nothing. It still stings the archer, but not strongly enough to paralyze him: the only thing the dying lightning is able to achieve is skew his aim. He has been meaning to send his arrow through Lavellan's heart - but instead, he jerks it upwards, and it whizzes past the elf, ripping through his sleeve and grazing his shoulder.  
  
Lavellan flinches and spits in indignation, and then takes a deep breath through his nose. By the gods, this is going to be the last drop of his blood they ever spill!..  
  
...Or so he says to himself.


	3. Chapter 3

It might have been a better idea to begin firing magic at the archer there and then, without letting him come to his senses and keeping at a safe distance from him. This is what a battle strategy guide would have suggested, for sure - but Lavellan does not give a half-chewed nug leg about battle strategy guides. He wants to see him up close - he wants to look into the face of the shem who had the audacity to wound him. He wants to watch the whites of his eyes roll out and fill the entire sockets, glistening like boiled eggs, as the Templar pays tenfold for the stinging pain he has caused.

  
Once again, Lavellan uses the Fade Step to dart forward, like a blurred, silvery-blue shadow, lighter than the vapour that gushes out in creamy, cloud-like puffs with each word when one starts a conversation on a winter day.   
  
This mental comparison suddenly brights alive another string of patchwork memories, which emerge out of far-off corners of Lavellan's mind like age-old markings highlighted by Veil fire, lingering in the elf's head no more than it takes to magically hurl himself across the platform.   
  
As he whizzes off towards the archer, he finds himself remembering that blabbering human, Chancellor Roderick, on that bitter, frosty morning when the two of them first set eyes upon one another. As he ranted on and on about knife-eared heathens and the Divine's murder, the gusts of his breath made it look as if he was quite literally steaming with rage; the image was nicely complemented by his frost-bitten nose, which gleamed a deep, juicy red.   
  
As Lavellan recollects, he was irritated to no end by the human's baseless accusations, which all amounted to 'he is an elf that happened to be nearby, hence he is guilty of... everything!'. Presently, his irritation mounted to the level of indignation, and indignation, in turn, did not take too long to flare up into wild, searing anger, driving the elf towards the red-nosed shem, with his fists clenched around tiny, buzzing coils of lightning. But before he was able to set these coils loose and let them eat into that protruding, porous, beak-like piece of flesh and singe the tiny, wire-like black hairs that poked out of the Chancellor's nostrils, Cassandra intervened. She grabbed the livid, thrashing elf by the collar of his tattered hunting jacket and pulled him back, mustering all of that bear-wrestling strength of hers.   
  
Having forced Lavellan to relax his fingers and put out his magic's pulsing purple light, Cassandra squared her shoulders and stepped in between him and Roderick; this made the elf glare at her with an intensity which could very well have left blistering marks on the skin on the back of her neck. He even recalls being ready to strangle her for taking the Chancellor's side.   
  
But the next moment, to Lavellan's utmost astonishment, it turned out that Cassandra intended to do nothing of the sort. Instead, she snapped at the Chancellor herself, rendering him utterly speechless with a vehement tirade in the elf's defence.  
  
 She did not have to do it, as he was still a prisoner and still their number one suspect in that whole Breach business; she did not have to protect him from the red-nosed shem, just as Lavellan did not have to protect her from the shade back on the shore of the frozen lake. And yet, she did it. She stood up for him, despite all the reasons she might have had to do otherwise. And later on, after they had set off on their way uphill, Lavellan glanced briefly at Cassandra and noticed that she had raised her eyebrows in surprise when their eyes met; this left him wondering whether this had happened because his gaze, too, had softened, just as hers had done after he aided her in battle...  
  
  
The smile that these memories have lit up is still lingering in the corners of Lavellan's mouth when, with a small jolt as his heels knock against the mossy stone, he comes to a halt just a few inches away from the archer, the tips of their noses almost touching. And, incidentally, Lavellan's nose definitely greatly disapproves of such proximity, because the body of this Templar (for want of a better word) is cloaked in a rippling veil of rank, sour odour - the unfortunate consequence of living in the wilds without bothering to find at least some sort of woodland stream to bathe in (unfortunate for those who come near, that is).  
  
   
Gagging slightly, the elf looks the human over from head (adorned by a thin, patchy layer of greasy hair and an elaborate, many-shaded pattern of acne) to toe (yet again, quite literally, since one of the archer's boots is badly torn, and there is a gnarly, dirty-nailed toe poking out). Then, the dreamy smile at images of Cassandra turns into a malicious leer: the elven mage has figured out which spell to use on this... specimen. All this grease will light up quite nicely is he sets it on fire - not to mention that it would be the loveliest retaliation for burning those villagers. By the Creators, he is never tired of his own cleverness!  
  
But just as Lavellan begins to rub the fingertips of his staff-free hand against the base of his thumb, as though turning his own skin into magical kindling, the archer slips his hand down towards his belt, which obviously used to belong to a different set of armour and is too big for him, sagging down on his narrow hips like a tiny leather skirt. The elf follows the direction of the human's gesture, his pupils contracting: the 'skirt' has a dagger tucked away into it.  
  
  
'Oh no you don't, shemlen!' Lavellan breathes, reaching out in an attempt to grab the archer by the wrist - but the strain of this movement makes countless white-hot needles sink deep into his wounded shoulder.  
  
  
The elf gasps in pain, as an unpleasant, soggy feeling seeps through the cloth of his shirt, and staggers back. The archer takes advantage of the situation, hurries to whips out his hidden dagger - and then, freezes, a jagged red line slowly snaking its way across his throat. He wheezes, opening his mouth wide enough for Lavellan to see his tongue, which is covered in a greyish, flaking film, left there after what must have been a lifetime of not gargling on water after meals; the wheeze is followed by a shrill creak of all the joints in the shem's motley armour, as he leans forward drunkenly, his eyes popping out just as Lavellan expected they would. The elf steps aside, still wincing in pain, and allows the greasy Templar to plop on the ground, face down, a sticky pool of blood gathering up underneath his neck.  
  
  
But the space where the archer stood, but a moment ago, is not left empty. No sooner does the shemlen fall than the air in front of Lavellan fills with a swirling cloud of slate-grey smoke, which floats upwards in swaying, nebulous tendrils, weaving into a familiar lanky figure in an enormous hat. It is not long before the smoky silhouette gains a more solid form; and when it does, Lavellan hears a quiet, slightly hoarse voice, declaring in a pleased tone,   
  
'I helped!'

  
'Dammit, Cole!' the elf snaps, kicking at the dead archer in frustration. 'This was supposed to be my kill!'  
   
  
Really now: how was he supposed to be a fearsome battle mage if Cole did his job for him?  
  
  
'Oh,' the spirit boy says apologetically, his eyebrows forming a barely visible arch underneath the straw-like strands of his hair. 'I didn't know. I heard him call out to his dagger, telling it to be ready; he was going to hurt you. But you can kill them if you like: they want to hurt you too'.  
  
  
With that, he turns around and waves vaguely in the direction of the remaining minion throng; the paralysis must have started to release its hold of the rogue Templars, and one by one, they are beginning to stir and groan and grope about, still half-stunned but seeming to grow more and more aware of their surroundings with every passing second.  
  
Fingering the frayed cloth over his wound absent-mindedly with one hand, Lavellan claws at his weapon's handle with another, knitting his eyebrows together in intense concentration. And just as the raggedy minions straighten up and regain control of their limbs, the elf brings his arm forward and points dramatically at their mismatched ranks with the gnarled ornament that adorns his staff, tiny flame tongues licking the wood without igniting it or leaving any dark sooty marks; then, he places one foot in front of the other and draws his other arm back with his palm open and his fingers half-bent in their joints. Noting to himself that he must look intimidating and war-like and incredibly handsome in this pose, Lavellan takes a moment to pause for breath and then begins a swift, sweeping, deadly dance among the rogue Templars, twirling his staff till it turns into an elongated blur attached to a lashing, whip-like ribbon of fire. Never standing still, he skips back and forth on his tiptoes, each of his halla-like leaps accompanied by a ferocious bite of his staff. The flaming ribbon coils and uncoils, slicing at the Templars' hands and faces and forcing them to fall back, cursing chokingly as the mage fire munches ravelously on their skin.   
  
Time and again, one of the ruffians, with his face twisted into a pained grimace and rapidly beginning to blister, lets out a savage growl and attempts to strike back at the elf. And as he does so, shadow appears behind his back, tall and grey and rather comically shaped, resembling on oversized mushroom with a floppy cap. The comical effect inevitably disappears, however, when the shadow whips out two daggers, which glint like the bared, venom-moistened fangs of some giant serpent. With relentless precision, these fangs seek out the gaps between the carelessly assembled armour pieces and, making a soft, juicy squelch, sink deep into the unprotected flesh and shower the age-worn stone with tiny drizzles of blood.

  
Whenever he sees this, Lavellan usually frowns and calls out angrily,  
  
  
'Will you stop doing that, Cole?!'   
  
  
For him, the spirit boy's persistent attempts at 'helping' are infinitely irritating; at this rate, that meddlesome chicken-lover is going to claim all the glory for himself! Who does he think Lavellan is, a feeble old man with wobbly knees and a saggy fold of skin dangling off his neck, wrinkly like a dried-up grape? No - he is the goddamn Inquisitor! He can, and he will, finish off this marauding gang all on his own! This is going to be so... very... easy...  
  
  
The last words of this furious inner monologue trail off into nothingness, suddenly sluggish and barely coherent: try as he might to keep up the fighting spirit within himself, Lavellan is gradually getting more and more worn out by his ceaseless whirling. His movements, once perfectly coordinated and fitting seamlessly into the rhythm of his battle dance, grow jumbled and awkward; his lightning-fast reflexes slow down - and soon enough, the cut in his shoulder is joined by another, and then another, as the rogue Templars, trying to ignore the wounds from Cole's daggers, not to mention the oozing pustules and raw red cracks in their burned skin, keep hacking stubbornly at the elven mage with their weapons. And while you cannot wound an unstoppable whirlwind that carries with it a flaming whip, you can very well wound a staggering knife-ear, with his eyes dim and bloodshot, his hair standing on end, and dark spots spreading all across his clothing, in places where the fabric gets drenched in sweat and gore.  
  
  
Finally, something very shameful happens; something that tears at Lavellan's proud Dalish soul far more ferociously than the Templars' blades tear at his flesh. He trips. Yes, he, the great and undefeated Inquisitor, trips over the root of some blasted shrub, while backing away from a particularly hostile ruffian - and falls to the ground in the most ludicrous way possible, like an wide-eyed, inexperienced recruit, fresh off his or her parents' farmland, who is just learning the very first battle moves under Commander Cullen's guidance, and keeps confusing the sword's tip and pommel.   
  
  
The renegade Templar that Lavellan has been fighting looms over him, just as the elf loomed over his fallen 'boss' what seems like a lifetime ago. Unlike the greasy archer, this one does not look too repulsive - in fact, in the days before he took to the wilds, he must have been rather handsome (as far as male shems go, at least), with his straight, broad-tipped nose and heavy jaw. Now, of course, the many months of living far away from civilization have taken their toll, drawing deep, gulley-like semicircles underneath the man's eyes and hiding his face below a thick layer of grime (a sort of a Fereldan version of an Orlesian mask, as Madame Vivienne would probably remark). Against this maroonish-grey background, the Templar's eyes stand out with an intensity that makes Lavellan's heart contract (no matter how hard he might scold himself for not being brave). Bright-blue and surprisingly clear for a man who has obviously not been adhering to the healthiest lifestyle, they seem to glow like crystals of purest lyrium - a cold, hard glow that almost seems to leave a web of tiny nicks and scratches on Lavellan's face, like shards of ice crust caking over a deep snowdrift.  
   
  
This glow reaches its coldest when the Templar shifts forward slightly and presses the sole of his massive hobnailed boot into the elf's narrow, heaving chest. A torrent of fire coursing through his cracking ribs, Lavellan lets out a prolonged, strained wheeze, a slimy clot of blood bubbling somewhere halfway up his throat - and when he does, the renegade smiles. In this smile, which is filled with triumph and malevolence and undeniable, unabashed enjoyment, Lavellan sees a mirror image of himself - and knows that there is going to be no mercy.  
  
   
Somewhere in the background, in the blurry mist that seems to billow behind the Templar's back, the elf thinks he can see Cole cleaving through the ranks of the other shemlen, diligent as a schoolboy doing his homework. He has half a mind to call out to him, to say something like, 'I am hurt! I need your help!'  - but instantly dismisses the notion, growing so angry with himself that he chokes on a trickle of blood. He may be down, but he will not stoop any lower than this! He will see this through to the end like the proud scion of the Elvhen that he is; no helpful spirit boys required! Perhaps he still has a chance to best this shem - maybe if he grabs him by the ankle and sets a shock blast through his entire armour set...  
  
   
But Lavellan gets no opportunity to test out this brilliant stratagem - as the next second, he finds himself deafened by the thundering rattle of metal, and then buried underneath the rogue Templar's corpse, their faces squished together and something hard and splintering poking at the elf's head. This something turns out to be a crossbow bolt sticking out of the shem's forehead; Lavellan might have never figured it out, as his thought process is dulled by the surge of pain which ripped him limb from limb when the Templar's weight added to the strain that his bleeding body has to endure - but his faltering logic is aided by a familiar voice, singing gleefully somewhere in the darkness that has fallen over the elf's world,  
  
  
'That's my girl, Bianca! That's my girl!'  
  
   
A few moments later, the darkness dissipates, giving way to glaring sunlight: someone must have rolled back the fallen Templar to give Lavellan a chance to breathe.  
  
   
'Thank you, Varric,' the elf slurs, blinking dazedly, 'Now help me get to my feet and we will finish off these ba-'   
   
  
'You will not be getting to your feet again, you filthy elf!'   
  
   
This response, gratingly hoarse, with a long hissing breath following every word, definitely does not come from Lavellan's dwarven comrade. As the smudges of bright, flaring yellow before his eyes fade away, the elf realizes that the person who is talking to him is none other than Ser Gutter-Armour, the Templar he fought against first; judging by the little streams of water and splutters of slush that keep running down across his chest plate, Lavellan's frost spell has just worn off. And quite naturally, his first desire upon thawing would be to deal with the mage who had shackled him in ice - he has even prepared that enormous bulky blade of his just for the occasion! But of course...  
  
  
'But of course,' Lavellan sighs, his eyelids fluttering shut, as the broad strip of metal obscures his entire vision.  
  
  
Perhaps all of his strength has been drained after processing the thought that the big Templar, who he thought he had disposed of, is alive and well; or perhaps, all of his bleeding wounds together have proven too much to bear - but it is at this point that the last inklings of Lavellan's stubborn will to fight back suddenly fade away, snuffed out like the flame of a candle. Resigning to his fate, he relaxes his tense, aching muscles, lying at the Templar's feet like a lifeless ragdoll and preparing to be split apart by the coming blow.  
  
  
And the blow does come - a powerful downward thrust, which rips through layers of cloth and flesh, and brings with it a tidal wave of pain, which carries Lavellan away, first dragging him through a blazing crimson furnace and then, as though he were a shem taking one of those traditional baths where you have to jump into snow right out a steam-filled room, hurtling him down into impossibly cold, overwhelming darkness.  
  
  
And in that darkness, there is no place for Varric's alarmed outcry, 'Look, Seeker! There's a big one!' - or for the struggle that follows when Gutter-Armour is knocked back by a swooshing shield bash, his bucket-like helmet denting at the impact against the stone, just seconds before (together with the head inside) it forever parts ways with the Templar's body, rolling away across the stone platform, while the bearer of the blade that has severed the man's neck wipes it against the moss and says grimly,  
  
'May Andraste have mercy on your soul!'  
  
  
Nor is there place for the gloved hands that press against the sides of Lavellan's frozen, pale, marble-like face, and then brush sticky, sweat-soaked strands of hair out of his eyes; or for the arms that sweep him up, cradling him protectively, while his head lols listlessly from side to side; or for the cracking voice with a faint Nevarran accent, which calls out to him urgently,  
  
   
'Can - can you hear me Inquisitor? Lavellan? Arryn? Arryn!'  
  
  
There is no place for any of this. There is no place for anything.


	4. Chapter 4

I don't think that shaking him like this will be any help, Seeker,' the dwarf remarks, folding his crossbow and strapping it to his back, and then squatting down next to Cassandra.  
  
   
  
'I am not shaking him!' the Seeker says defensively, as she pulls off her glove and slides her hand along Lavellan's jaw line and down to his neck.  
  
  
She feels a faint tingle caressing her fingertips as they travel over the short, bristling stubble, which the elf recently started growing, after a few friendly drinks with Bull, Varric, Dorian and Blackwall resulted in a rather inappropriately loud argument about facial hair and a subsequent dare to break the stereotypes that surround the generally beardless elven race. It does not take Cassandra too long to make the shocking discovery that she finds this sensation quite pleasant - but, mentally slapping herself for being so irresponsible, she hastens to banish all frivolity from her mind, focusing instead on the faint inkling of a pulse that thumps weakly against her fingers, appearing to grow slower and slower with every moment.  
  
But, as soon as the ridiculous thoughts about the elf's stubble are gone, the Seeker suddenly feels as if someone has put out the only source of light and warmth within her soul. Without this little distraction, she finds herself lost in the cold and dark, her heart twisting into a tight knot of raw red flesh, as though it is being squeezed by the clawed, bony hands of some monstrous creature - a fear demon. This unseen, malicious entity hisses to Cassandra that the warm lifeblood will eventually stop coursing through the vein under her fingertips, that the soft rhythm of Lavellan's pulse will fade, and that the elf will never open his eyes again. And, is if that were not enough, it shows her dark, unnbearably sorrowful images of herself, in a grim, blood-curdling version of the future, akin to the one Lavellan and Dorian told them about after the battle in Redcliffe Castle.  
  
  
First, Cassandra sees herself carrying the fallen Inquisitor back to Skyhold, her eyes cast down and her back bent under her burden, while the heavy rain keeps pounding against her armour, its large, cold drops blurring her vision, together with the other drops, hot and salty, which seep through despite all her efforts to hold them back. The most poignant, the most painful part of the vision comes when Cassandra imagines glancing down at Lavellan's face, momentarily mistaking the nature of the tiny clear streams rolling down the elf's cheeks: it seems to her that he is weeping, having succumbed to his cruel, mangled wounds, and she wants to comfort him, reassure him that the pain will be gone soon, that he will be healed, and that everything will be all right  - but then, her heart sinking into a seemingly bottomless icy pit, she realizes that these are merely raindrops, not tears, and it is too late for healing.  
  
Then, in a flash, this  image is a replaced by another one, which pushes Cassandra's heart even deeper into the abyss. It seems to her that she is standing in front of Skyhold's main staircase, keeping a solemn last vigil together with Leliana next to a colossal funeral pyre. Despite the pain that creeps into their hearts like darspawn Taint every time they think of the body that has been placed on top of this sombre construct, they both remain silent and perfectly still, with with their faces upturned towards the tiny ember flakes, which soar up from the roaring flames to the velvety, diamond-dusted canopy of the heavens, in a swirl of golden dust that carries Lavellan's soul to be judged by the Maker that he did not believe in, while still spreading His light of hope across Thedas with more valour and devotion than most Chantry-bred Andrastians.   
  
And as this dust melts away into the night, and its warmth is swallowed by the encroaching cold that rolls in waves down from the mountains, Cassandra ponders darkly on the new Rifts that will keep appearing in the future. Without a doubt, they will now swell and deepen and merge into huge, bleeding gaps, tearing apart the fabric of the world with a renewed force: for the hand that once held the burning Anchor to keep the horrors of the Fade at bay, now hangs limply from the pyre, and its long, sensitive mage's fingers are clasped stiffly round a patch of dead skin, which, as Sera would put it, bawling drunkenly on Josephine's shoulder, 'don't glow no more'.  
  
Then, Cassandra's thoughts turn to Corypheus, and to the malicious delight that will ripple through his ranks when the Venatori learn of the Herald's fall. She also thinks of the grief that will paralyze the lands that the Inquisition once awoke with a promise of hope, and of the pain and despair that will sweep like a plague through the alienages and the wild woodland domain of the Dalish, when the elves learn that it is time to silence the gleeful songs they once sang of their kinsman, a beacaon of hope and source of great pride for their scattered, divided, unfortunate race. She thinks, briefly, of the scandals and hissing whispers in Val Royaux, should a group of faithful clerics order for the bells to toll in mourning for a godless knife-ear, as they tolled for Divine Justinia - and of the painful echo that these bells will stir in her heart once more.   
  
She thinks of many things, which race through her mind like shadows of thunderclouds before an oncoming storm - but one thought keeps returning to her, eating through her heart like acid, wounding her deeper than all the musings on the loss that the Inquisitor's demise would bring to Thedas. Stupefied by dread, she keeps chanting to herself six short, simple words, which greatly outweigh the rest of her despair-filled visions,  
  
 _I will never see him again._  
  
This is what frightens her the most. Not the demon invasion, not Corypheus' triumph, not the profound mourning across the kingdoms - but the horrible, undeniable truth that the Inquisitor's passing will mean no more rapid-fire exchanges of snide remarks; no more confrontations in the war room, with Cullen and Leliana having to pull the two of them apart; no more of the elf's sly, Varric-like jokes that inevitably make Cassandra blush; no more stolen glances across the dinner table at Skyhold, beside the campfire  in the evening, or even in the heat of battle, when she suddenly finds herself struck by the realization that the Inquisitor is actually quite handsome, with his high, sharply outlined cheekbones and thin lips, with the steep curve of his nose, and the way the light shines within his eyes, light-hazel, almost yellow in colour, at times cold and intent like those of a bird of prey, and at other times full of soft warmth that always brings a smile to Cassandra's lips if she allows herself to bask in it a little. Will she be able to bear it if this warmth is gone forever?..  
  
Vivid and heart-breaking as these images are, it does not take too long for them to rip their way through Cassandra's mind, and after a few moments of stupefied silence she comes to her senses. Gripping the Inquisitor's shoulders a little tighter, the Seeker reminds herself that in the real world, there has been no funeral yet; in the real world, Lavellan is still fighting for his life - and finally, in the real world, there is a bothersome dwarf who is still waiting for her to finish her reply. Which she promptly does.  
  
'I am checking for life signs. There is a vein in the neck lets one feel the heartbeat. It is weak, but it is still there, and...'  
  
'I know that, Seeker,' Varric persists, 'But feeling for a pulse is not supposed to include petting his face. Let's just find a potion and stop wasting time on your suppressed desires'.  
  
With that, he dives into one of the many satchels and pouches that are attached to almost every inch of free space on his jacket (hand-crafted by the Inquisitor himself, following proprietary Carta schematics). Cassandra should have helped the dwarf, she knows she should - but instead, she just follows his nimble movements with one of her most intense glares. Varric's casual, off-hand remark, his crude hint at something so... so private - it is just too much to bear. In an instant, the void that was left by the visions of the dead Inquisitor is filled up by choking anger, which closes its grip around Cassandra's throat like tightly wound vice, refusing to let go, making each breath impossibly difficult, as if she were struggling with a long climb uphill, somewhere high in the mountains, where the air is thin and scrapingly crisp.   
  
Only when Varric finally finds what he was looking for - a tiny phial, lit up from within by a soft red glow - does the Seeker finally scavenge enough air to squeeze out an outraged question,  
  
'What did you say, dwarf?'  
  
Varric shrugs carelessly, opening the phial with his teeth and spitting out the cork over his shoulder.  
  
'I always thought it was garbage,' he says as soon as he is able to talk again. 'You know, the crap I wrote about people trying to tear each other apart when all they want is to kiss. But after watching you and Goldielocks here for a while, I just don't know any more. Now, will you maybe stop stewing and hold the poor blighter's head so I can try to squeeze this stuff in?'  
  
The Seeker purses her lips into a thin, thread-like line; if her hands were free, she could have easily picked up the nearest heavy object and plastered it into Varric's face - but fortunately for the hairy-chested storyteller, right now the unconscious elf in Cassandra's arms demands more attention. Grumbling incoherently to herself, she does as the dwarf has told her, sliding her hand underneath the back of Lavellan's head and lifting it into a more comfortable position. As she does so, her pupils dilate momentarily, and then shrink to tiny pinpoints, while her face is flooded by two waves of colour, swiftly following one another: first white, and then, a deep crimson. For once again, her mind is invaded by a torrent of abhorrently frivolous thoughts.  
  
  
When they had just started travelling together, the former First of the Dalish clan proudly wore a long, flowing mane of blonde hair, which prompted Varric to nickname him Goldielocks. As the dwarf explained one night at the campfire, 'I was seriously considering calling you Blondie the Second, but you did not blow up the Conclave - plus, I suspect you would not like to be called Second anyway, am I right?'; to which Lavellan nodded meaningfully and, with a single snap of his fingers, made a little twig float into the air, off the ground at his feet and directly into the flames - perhaps as a demonstration of what he would do to Varric if he dared to call him Second.  
  
However, shortly after they settled in at Skyhold - perhaps feeling that a change of appearance was in order as a symbol of his new station - the Inquisitor marched straight to the barber and had his locks shorn off, save for a few strands at the very top of his head, which Cassandra now weaves around her fingers, praying in desperation that Varric will not notice.  
  
Really, what in the Maker's name is going on with her?! The Inquisitor is wounded, dying perhaps, and instead of doing something useful, she keeps getting torn between agonizing what-if scenarios and these stupid, girlish fancies about his hair and stubble. The latter unsettle her especially, as they keep sneaking into her head like rude, mannerless youngsters who shift around and whisper and giggle, disrupting the solemnity of a Chantry service. This - this is wrong! This is so wrong! No matter how potent, the liquid in Varric's phial will definitely not be enough to completely revive Lavellan, and then they will have to strip him and inspect his wounds - what will she do then? Let the Inquisitor die in her arms, while she blushes and fawns over the outlines of his chest and stomach? She cannot allow this! This is not a book - this is real! She has to snap out of it!  
  
   
'I am sorry, Inquisitor,' she whispers, gazing wistfully into Lavellan's face, while Varric lifts the healing phial to the elf's ashen lips.   
  
  
Slowly, a wisp of sparkling pinkish smoke trails out of its vessel and enters Lavellan's mouth, as though Varric were literally breathing new life into the wounded elf.  
  
'Neat, eh?' the dwarf asks, watching the soft, ethereal warmth pass from the phial into the Inquisitor's body, highlighting his veins in a pulsing pink as it travels down his throat and towards his chest. 'I won a couple of these from that Clemence guy in a game of Wicked Grace. You'd be surprised at how ridiculously easy it is to beat a Tranquil. They never bluff, but they never call your bluffs either. I would have stripped him of all his stuff, but I felt sorry for the fellow. The whole point was to try and help him unwind a little, and he ended up just staring at me with those empty eyes of his and handing over these potion thingies'.  
  
'You could have just requested our alchemists to provide us with healing supplies. No need for card games,' Cassandra retorts mechanically, preoccupied with observing the subtle changes that are caused by the potion.  
  
To her utmost relief, as the pink glow spreads rapidly through the elf's entire body, it returns a healthy colour his sunken cheeks and frozen lips and melts away the invisible layer of ice that has been chaining his limbs. And as soon as he is free, Lavellan lets out a tremendous gasp and throws his eyes wide open, staring straight into Cassandra's face.  
  
Clenching her teeth in order not to pant (for her heart has begun beating at a wild, frenzied speed), the Seeker smiles at him with just the corners of her lips; he gasps again and, his fingers jerking suddenly, grabs her by her wrist with such force that she loses feeling in her fingers.  
  
  
'Inquisitor?' Cassandra addresses him anxiously, ignoring the feeling that her bones are about to be ground into dust - and then adds, 'It's just as I expected: the potion helped him come to his senses but did not close his wounds. It we could get him to a proper healer...'  
  
  
Lavellan's nostrils twitch slightly, as does his lower left eyelid. He chews at his lips for a couple of seconds, and then wheezes, his tone rather aggressive (while his fingers are still instinctively gripping Cassandra's hand),  
  
'I don't... need... a... healer... I am... fine...'

  
And, bringing to life quite a few of the most high-strung scenes from Varric's books, he concludes his sentence with a loud, barking cough, which makes rusty-coloured foam appear on his lips.  
   
  
Cassandra shakes her head and strokes the elf's hand, as a gentle hint for him to release his hold of her. The realization that he has been gripping her wrist seems to come as a complete shock to him; he starts violently and lets go of the Seeker, muttering defensively while she lays him down on the ground,  
  
  
'I did... did not... It's not what you... think...'  
  
  
'Hey, calm down, Goldielocks!' Varric grins. 'She'll pay you in kind for breaking her hand when she's popping out little half-elfies!'  
  
  
Cassandra does not turn her head to incinerate him with her glare, as she is too busy struggling with loosening Lavellan's clothes, which are stiff and sticky, since they have been soaked in quite a generous helping of blood, which has now dried up in places, forming layers of hard crust round dark spots that are still wet to the touch. As predicted, Cassandra can't help but get distracted by the thoughts of the bare skin that the soggy fabric conceals, and, once again, her inner rage at herself is just as great as her annoyance with Varric. Still, she finds it in her to say brusquely,  
  
'Instead of talking nonsense, you'd better get moving and seek out our scouts'.  
  
  
'There's no need,' a new voice cuts in, somewhere from above. 'They are coming. I showed them the way; I told them the Inquisitor is hurt. I also told them to try not to stomp too much: it scares the rabbits... But they might not remember that part. They might not remember me at all; not remember me telling... But they will know that they are needed here - the Inquisitor's hurt will sing inside their hearts, and they will follow the song till they find this place. I know - I helped them slow down and listen'.  
   
  
'Ah, there you are, kid!' Varric cries out, shielding his eyes with his hand and squinting at one of the half-ruined arches around them: Cole has materialized on its very top, sitting cross-legged with his hands cupped around his knees, and swaying slightly back and forth. 'I couldn't for the life of me remember where you'd gone!'  
  
  
'Neither could I,' Cassandra adds. 'But - thank you for bringing help'.  
  
  
Then, she leans closer to Lavellan and says quietly,  
  
'Did you hear that? Our men are on their way; there is always a healer among our scouts, so your wounds will get treated soon. And while they are getting to us, I will stay by your side and keep you safe. You have my word, Inquisitor'.  
  
'I know you will stay, Cassandra,' the elf mouths in reply. 'You always stay... That's why I... I...'  
  
   
And then, he falls silent.


End file.
